


Abandoned Tea Cups

by Yuuko



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Challenge Lets Write Sherlock, Challenge Response, Character Death, F/M, Flashbacks, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Memories, Mind Palace, Molly Hooper - Freeform, Near Death Experience, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuuko/pseuds/Yuuko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the time sherlock was gone, John met and married Mary Morstan. Sherlock returned, and brought with him all the danger that he was trying to keep away from John. Mary got caught up in the fray and was killed. Now John is left trying to reconcile his feelings over her death, and sherlock's sudden return. Sherlock doesn't know how to help him, and this problem is only made worse by a new and unwanted addition to his mind palace; a version of Mary, born from his own subconscious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandoned Tea Cups

John clenched and unclenched his fist as he waited. He fidgeted as little as possible, eyes trained straight ahead as they made their way back home. Beside him Sherlock stared almost unblinking as the city went by. He ignored the clear discomfort John was feeling, though he was very much aware of the nervous hand clenching habit. Not that he needed to see the twitching to know he had upset John. Usually he was chastised or at least John said his name in a displeased tone when he harassed Lestrade and his men for their stupidity, but all this quiet was worse than John even yelling at him.

It wasn't a terrible accident he had been involved in. Not that it had been much of an accident at all. This displeasure streamed from memories of traumatic events that were best left forgotten, though he was very aware that John will never forget watching Sherlock step off of the side of St. Barts. Today was different in it’s final outcome, though there are relatable situations, there had been a ledge, and he had fallen off, but  it wasn’t like he had fallen from a great height, in fact, John snatching him by the coat as he was on his way down assured that when he did make contact with the ground it wasn’t at a dangerous velocity or height. Nothing was broken, maybe bruised, but everything was still functional, not that their culprit had survived his trip off the side of the building. No damage done, but that didn’t change the fact that John was very cross with him. Not just because of the memory, but because he had actually scared John.

They paid their fair and made their way upstairs in silence, John in the lead with Sherlock trailing behind like a shadow. Mrs. Hudson emerged from her rooms commenting on how nice it was to see them both back at it, after so long living apart. John mumbled something about being off to bed, and excused himself just as she was about to usher them into her own flat for tea and a bit of catching up.

"Are the two of you having a domestic?" she asked, bemused by John's quick departure.

"Apparently..." Sherlock listened to the footsteps overhead, deducing that John was making himself tea. "Maybe next time, Mrs. Hudson." he said nodding to her and turned to go up the stairs. He waited for her to say her piece, he could see it in her mouth as she tried to chew over what to say before she finally became bold enough with her words to utter them.

"He was distraught when you...left," she floundered a bit with how to describe his absence, none of them had really been able to say Sherlock had died, nor could they really seem to vocalize the entire situation. "And then with Mary....maybe it is too soon for him.” She sighed crossing her arms in discomfort, her weathered right hand tapped at her chin as her gaze traveled up above their heads. “Maybe all the action is a bit much for him?" she offered as she watched Sherlock head up the stairs.   
"Might want to actually apologize for this one." she called “You must have done something....”

Sherlock found John exactly where he expected him, in the kitchen preparing a cup of tea for himself. His jacket was placed on the back of the chair, and John looked more exhausted than Sherlock had noticed at the crime scene. Occasionally even he got tunnel vision. He frowned a bit, displeased with himself for not noticing how worn and sad John really was. It looked like John had finally allowed himself to release the tension he'd been holding, his shoulders were drooped and his head was held down. There was hardly anything visible of the usually proud standing and watchful ex-soldier, he was just a sad and tired man who was close to collapsing from exhaustion.

"John..."

He stopped moving, hands held onto his tea as if it were a lifeline in their world before he tried to escape the kitchen.

"John." Sherlock repeated reaching out to grab him by the arm.

"Let go, Sherlock." his tone was muted, face turning away from his friend as he felt the beginning of the tears he’d been holding back for days.  
"No." He said attempting to pry the tea from his hands, rather than have it dropped or thrown at him. "You're still going through the stages of grief, and naturally what you witnessed probably did more harm."

"Brilliant deduction." John’s tone was sharp, "clever of you." The fight had left him, taking flight the moment he'd gone from feeling angry about not saving his wife, to trying to make up and balance the worlds goodness now that it was absent of her. It was the reason why he started following Sherlock around on cases, days after moving back in with him. He wondered at some odd hour of the night during his first week back, if it was some misplaced intent at a tribute to his late wife, but he found that he cared very little for the act and more about the goodness it did for others in her memory. He outlived her, and now it was his turn to do good for others like she had done in her life.  
            John’s intentions of saving the world one life at a time did nothing to improve his mood, which wavered between depressed and apathy. The only exception -as he was an exception for everything- was Sherlock, who he found perpetually irritating and suffocating to be around; causing him to snap at his (for once well meaning) roommate on a regular basis.

“What if you get yourself killed?”

John was pulled out of his daze by a pair of arms wrapping around him and pulling him vice like into a terrible excuse for a hug. He tried to push against the lean chest but his emotional and physical exhaustion evaporated the small bit of willingness to challenge Sherlock. He relaxed into the arms, his own slowly reaching around the detective and clinging to him, because he was so tired of everything and at least here he and Sherlock were safe, for now. His hot mug of tea was pressed into the small of Sherlock’s back as he began to silently cry into the belstaff coat lapels. 

Awkwardly Sherlock patted John on the back, doing as he had been instructed months ago by Molly, in case such situations arose. He let his mind wander, running over the details of the conversation with Molly. Though she had not been pleased to see him sitting in her flat at two in the morning, she had been very helpful and patient with him. Sherlock believed Molly to be the closest thing to an angel that the world had. Normal people wouldn’t be so forgiving or kind, especially after some of the things he had put the poor young woman through. Sherlock understood people went through mourning periods, but he hadn’t witnessed the entire length of one before up close, and he found himself extremely uncomfortable as John grew closer and closer to actual outbursts of his feelings. The detective had nearly ran to Molly’s flat at the first sign of a shift in John’s mood from denial to depression.

 

_“I need an expert,” he had said. “He’s crying.” he sat himself heavily on her overly squishy couch, sinking slightly into the cushions as her cat jumped up into his lap for a good scratch._

_“He’s upset, of course he’s going to mourn his wife, he mourned you too.” she placed her hands on her pajama clad hips, her face a stern frown of authority._

_“You have to be supportive.” she sat down beside him, leaning back on the couch and closing her eyes. “Poor John...” she cuddled a pillow from the couch to her chest, hugging it as if it would do something to deter the feeling of sadness trying to take hold of her._

_“It’s a feeling that has to happen in order to eventually reach closure.” she had stayed quiet for a few minutes considering how best to continue, her cat jumped onto the back of the couch and made itself at home behind Sherlock’s head, tail swishing at his cheek every few minutes._

_“Feelings are important, so you must be kind and patient, and above all very supportive...” she turned on the couch, bringing her legs up, and put her feet up on his lap. I watched you pretend not to be hurt when you hurt John, it’s similar to that feeling you were having, only you knew that you were both alright...John won’t get that sense of relief.” she yawned openly as she got more comfortable on her couch. “Go home, make sure he’s at least getting some sleep and when he’s upset show him that you are there for him.” She had frowned at him, as if unsure that he could complete her orders. “Be nice to him, listen to him, comfort him. He needs a friend to rely on.”_

 

"It's alright John." Sherlock said, as he felt the ex-soldier relax into his chest like the first few nights. Except this time he had actually scared John enough to pull him back into that dark place he’d found right after Mary’s death "We're both here."

"It's not alright." he said angrily as hot tears fell in a stronger wave, and he shifted in Sherlock’s arms causing a new wet spot to form.  “She’s dead Sherlock!”

"But we aren’t." he said coolly, unfazed by the emotional display that was so rare from his best friend.

"But you could." John's hands were shaking as he looked up, face tear streaked and frowning. "You did once before, and then you came back...." he looked down at his clenched fists wrinkling Sherlock's favorite button up "and then Mary...."

John's arms tightened their hold around his narrow waist and pulled him closer, disgracing himself perhaps, but he needed to cry, just to let it out and get to the next stage of feeling; to get that relief that happened so briefly after a good cry, when everything was wrung out of you leaving nothing behind. He needed assurance and relief. He needed to know that he wasn’t imagining that he caught his best friend as he was falling and almost managed to pull him onto the balcony, assuring that he didn’t fall from the 9th story and instead only fell from the first.  

Sherlock didn't say anything as he let John calm himself within the embrace.

"Mary made her choice." Sherlock said a rare feeling of guilt seeping into his stomach. "I'm sorry John."

John pushed away as if bitten, anger flaring in his eyes as he backed away. He abandoned his tea at the kitchen table and went upstairs refusing to speak to Sherlock.

“Not good...” Sherlock sighed as he watched his friend shuffle away, shoulders hunched and head hanging low.  He heard the footsteps overhead as John just went to his bed and collapsed, not bothering to make himself comfortable.

Sherlock took John's forgotten cup of tea with him to the couch. This was a habit he'd developed since they'd both returned to 221B. John would abandon tea cups around the flat for various reasons and Sherlock always drank them, sometimes even cold. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his long arms around them, cup held carefully in his right hand as he closed his eyes and ventured into his mind palace.

Occasionally, even he needed the security and comfort his memories would bring him.

Memories of John had always been precious, especially while he'd been away; but now that his blogger, his friend, was so sad and lost he wondered if maybe staying gone would have been for the better. Mary wouldn't have died if the world still thought he was dead, and John wouldn't have had to deal with the pain of loss twice.

 

            He walked the corridors of his mind, usually lit bright with large windows projecting in sunlight and warmth, but today his mood was darker and the storm clouds filtered everything into shades of blue. If John was upset the world in his mind palace always took on this hue, Sherlock understood he must also be upset, even if he didn’t process it the same way as John.

He stopped at the door that lead into John’s portion of his Mind Palace. Initially the door to 221B just was domestic bits of information, how to go about basic home necessities, but then it was like John had moved in and instantly it became a world dedicated to memories and information on his flatmate. The kitchen was dedicated to information about tea and how John liked it, and meals they’d had together. Canisters on the shelves housed details of how John prefered his food, and favorite places to eat that Sherlock had taken him to. The sitting room had books waiting to be filled with information, and others that already housed details on what he knew of John’s home life and interests. A shrine to his best friend. Except for one detail.

Ever since _that_ night Sherlock always found her sitting in John’s chair. The late Mrs. Mary Watson sat as if on a throne, always waiting for him to visit her. From the evening of her death she now inhabited this space, not like a memory that had stored herself in his mind, but like an image of what he had met and what John had lost so unfairly.

He had never intended to make her present in his mind, he cared so little about any of John's love interests and this woman was just like all of them, except somehow, something had decided otherwise. Mary had made herself important in their lives, not taking any of Sherlock’s deconstructing to heart as something mean, and encouraging his and John’s comradery. The world was now Mary and John plus Sherlock, because she had become a rooted part of all things John. Just like he had become a part of all things Mary and all things Sherlock.

"One day I'll fade." Mind-Palace-Mary told him. “One day my memory won't hurt him so much, but for now you think on me as much as our John does." He tried to delete her as soon as she made this declaration, as if she owned the space within his own head more than he did, but he found that she was not so easily erased. She actually laughed at him as she watched him become irritated. In the physical world John watched Sherlock brood and scowl for days, but could never get the reason for it out of his friend. Begrudgingly Sherlock accepted her companionship when he visited the happier memories of previous adventures with his friend.

"Good evening." She said smiling up at him. "Have you made him upset again?" Mary

asked, as if she didn't know exactly what he knew of the world outside.

"Don't ask pointless questions." he said turning instead to the bookshelf on the left, intent on ignoring her and looking for anything pleasant of John.

"It's not pointless, I'm your soundboard, as much as he is." she was standing beside him and reached out to grab his arm.

"Don't touch me," he snapped.

"Why? Because you don't want to remember?" she frowned, "That’s the point of feelings and memories Sherlock, to be faced and accepted, and even to grow from them.” she gave him a withering look as he continued to try to ignore her.

“I’m not the real Mary, so there’s no need to be jealous of my selected real estate or appearance, I didn’t choose it for myself. I’m just the image of a dead woman.”

He picked up a book, their first chase through London, but Mary took it from him swiftly and held her arm out between him and the books. “You put me here Sherlock, be brilliant and figure out why your subconscious wants you to face me.”

“Misplaced feeling for a friend’s loss.” Sherlock responded flippantly turning to find another memory of his friend, considering even giving up on this room all together, and finding solace elsewhere in his palace. 

"You made me a promise, Holmes." she sounded angry, far angrier than he had ever witnessed her in life. "Stop pitying yourself and go help him." she said giving him a shove with his intended book.

 

            _The memory he wanted hit him like a tidal wave, as it took him away to a different time in his life. They were running, his mind racing faster than his legs would allow to carry him, always aware that John was keeping up. Up the steps, back down, jump over the roof, turn left. The American was almost a glazed over detail, little mattered about him, but John was laughing, and for the first time someone understood his sense of humor. Then they were off again running away from the scene before they were arrested for impersonating an officer._

 

_The world flipped, Where was John? Mary? John and Sherlock had just had an argument, or rather John had shouted at him and Mary had stood by displeased with her husband’s behaviour, but preferring to stay out of the fray. Something in the back of his mind vaguely informed him that this was not the place he intended to be._

_Mary had phoned him hours later, telling him that they had let her go to deliver a message, pleading him for his help. She was wandering around London, entirely turned around and crying, John wasn’t with her, they’d kept him as bait._

_They wanted Sherlock._

_“Where are you?” He asked, “Anything anything that can describe your surroundings.” he was already out the door and down the road, he could hear her voice with a variation, an echo.  
“There’s graffiti? I don’t know.” she was trying her best to keep herself calm and for that Sherlock was grateful. “It’s all over the walls.” she said out of breath, she was running. “I’m on the street.” her voice was out of breath in his ear as he ran._

_“Graffiti isn’t enough, I need a street, a landmark.”_

_“There’s an obelisk.” she gasped. “Trees and behind it an obelisk.”_

_“Need something better.”_

_The phone line died, Sherlock stopped running in the middle of the road, nearly causing an accident. He dialed Lestrade and shouted something to him about what they needed to do before dropping the phone call when Mary’s phone regained signal. “London Eye.” she said. “My phone is dying, Sherlock.” she was crying now, choking on her own tears and her gasping breaths as she ran towards the massive wheel. “Sherlock, I can’t lose John.”_  
  


Sherlock began moving before he opened his eyes. He could hear his friend breathing beside him. John was sitting at the other end of the couch watching him sleep. He knew it must have been another nightmare that had moved John out of his bed and caused him to join Sherlock on the couch at somewhere around four in the morning. At least this time he hadn’t been screaming in his sleep.

“Been there long?” Sherlock asked opening his eyes just enough to glance over at John. Thirty two minutes, Sherlock decided noting the details in the folds of John’s clothes (changed into after he’d woken up) and the redness and puffiness of his eyes. 

“Not really.”

“Tea?” Sherlock asked, getting up in a fluid motion and depositing his half consumed tea cup in the sink. It was as if he’d flipped a switch in John because immediately he also stood and slid into Sherlock’s path setting the kettle on the hopper and pulling out clean cups and the sugar.

“You’re dreaming about her.” Sherlock said finally removing his coat and hanging it on the peg in the sitting room. “That’s why you can’t let it go.”

“She was my wife Sherlock, and one of my best friends.” He stared at the kettle rather than his flatmate “People don’t just get over death that quickly.”  
“The stages of grieving, I’m familiar with the process.” Sherlock took off the sport coat and began to roll up his dress shirt sleeves.  
“But you don’t understand it.” the kettle began to whistle and John continued with his work, “People take months or years to recover over the loss of a loved one, I’m sorry it’s causing you so much trouble...” he didn’t put feeling into his words.  
“Trouble?” Sherlock frowned at John.  
“With cases, I can’t be jumping out, expecting you to get hurt constantly...” John’s eyes didn’t turn away from his work instead he watched the water swirl within the cups changing color as wisps of the tea began to form and overtake the clear liquid.

“It’s part of caring.” Sherlock said simply

“Are you trying to make me feel better?” John turned to look at him, forgetting his tea entirely as he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “You, Sherlock Holmes are trying to tell me it’s alright to have feelings.”

“It is.” Sherlock said simply “Caring is natural in marriages or in friendships.”  
John stared at him trying to smile, but at the same time feeling entirely unsettled by this new perspective on relationships Sherlock had developed at some point during their previous separation.  
“And you think it’s okay for me to be like this?” he asked, not sure what to expect now from the usually direct and supposedly unfeeling detective.

“It is perfectly acceptable for you to show signs of grief” Sherlock stood up and reached for the tea, he did want a cup, and had no intention of letting John oversteep it. “You are not allowing it to interfere with your daily life, well no more than is to be expected in a widower by what I’ve learned, and you still want to go out with me on cases.”  
“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” John stared at him as Sherlock pushed a cup of possibly over steeped tea into his hands.

“I had time to think...while...” Sherlock made a vague gesture with his cup, they were stepping dangerously close to taboo topics. “And Mary...she was a lovely person.” Sherlock said, putting sugar into his tea.

“You scarcely knew her.” John accused, though his tone was soft as he sat down across from Sherlock at the table.  
Sherlock didn’t comment further, instead he took a sip from his cup, wrinkling his nose and decided to add more sugar to improve the half ruined cup.

 

There was a time in his life when Sherlock didn’t really dream, or at least never remembered it. He kept this data in a room that was more of a closet than anything else, because that was how little he really cared for the wanderings of his mind during rest. Now he had to keep proper record of things, because he didn’t dream anymore. Nightmares are more consuming than dreams, because while there is a light and pleasant floating sensation a dream can leave behind, the gripping anxiety of nightmares left him puzzled and restless. There were themes running through all of his nightmares, riddles that needed deciphering before he would be able to shake all of them off and finally rest properly.  His subconscious was attempting to give him messages, but the mechanism for communication left much to be desired.  The pattern was in the participants and the recurring ending. Mary was always in them, sometimes John was as well, never facing each other, though always speaking to him. John was always harder to understand between the two, but Mary’s voice was clear and had a ring to it that left his heart feeling cold. Guilt, he was sure, played a part in this dread that the sight of a Dream Mary produced in him, especially when John was there too. Her voice like a sigh with the sharpness of a knife digging into his chest and carving away at him. Sherlock had fulfilled her final wishes in life, or he did as far as he logically comprehended them, but her final words, her half evaporated sigh of a voice had not been a simple command, so he was left to wonder if maybe her emotions and the sudden acceptance of her death had left her simply reeling, and there wasn’t a request in her words at all.

“The great Sherlock Holmes.” She grinned at him from the shadows, her face half hidden by the poor lighting in the alley. She was beckoning him forward, insisting there was something he needed to see. It was Mary, her voice was a lower pitch than appropriate but her mouth was the shade of rose pink she’d been wearing the day she died. Her hand was graceful as it was engulfed in white light, stretched out for him to take. He refused, backing away, an apology for her untimely demise bursting forth as he turned on his heels and ran from the ghost. The farther he ran the louder her voice became as it whispered in his ear. “How is it that you don’t see?”

 

Sherlock awoke with a start to find himself sprawled out on his bedroom floor. His heart was pounding in his chest as if he had just run from one one side of London to the other and there was a heaviness in his chest that made it hard to breathe.  
“Sherlock?” John’s voice called from the door, there was a quick double knock before it was pushed open enough for John to look in. “You okay in here?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, he tried to get up and pull the bedding along with him only to fall very ungracefully into his bed. He nodded, not meeting John’s eye.

“You sure?” John asked stepping a little farther into the room, he’d never known Sherlock to cause as much of a racket without calling for him.

Sherlock’s eyes darted over him; date night shoes, coat and scarf, dressed well but still casual, and recently shaved. Conclusion, he is going to visit Mary’s grave.

 “Say hello for me.” Sherlock said, falling onto his side on the bed, pulling the bedding over his head and laying still. It felt like he was hiding.

 

The other Mary, the Mary that was housing herself as a faulty mirror in his mind was insisting he had something he must do before any in the house could put the memory of her to rest. He was sure she knew of the dreams, this was his mind after all, she must know. But she never commented on his dreams, as if these two versions of the same women were entirely separate entities.

“This is growing both dull and tedious.” He frowned at her.

“You are the one who hasn’t solved this...puzzle, the great detective still can’t resolve what his emotions mean, or what emotions mean really.”

“Then make yourself clear and leave.” he snapped, sitting in his own chair across from her.

“Stupid, I’m a reflection of you and your memory of her, I can only make you remember key points of interaction between yourself and Mary, I can’t actually tell you what she meant by anything so stop staring at me like you expect it to fix your problem.” she crossed her arms and sat up a little straighter in John’s seat.

Sherlock frowned at her and picked up his violin which sat leaning against his chair, it’s notes holding more memories than any of the books on the shelves. His fingers plucked at the strings in a soft tune, stopping on a B flat which lead the room into an auditory memory.

 

 _It was a late night performance of one of Sherlock’s personal compositions designed to let him release and decipher some misplaced emotions he could feel himself skirting around. It’s like they were holding him prisoner, digging their claws deeper, even though they felt positive. A mostly cheerful melody, but with a melancholic undertone that still pulled at his heart in a downward way, as if it felt too pressured for regular function and instead must achingly proceed as the muscle is intended to. He remembered hearing John wander in somewhere in the middle of the piece. Though it was clear that he was trying to stay silent and not intrude on this personal moment; he was too fascinated by this display of emotion from his flatmate. It was rare for Sherlock to grow emotionally, and he only ever really did so when there was a musical catalyst, so the music played on with John’s soft breathing being the only interruption between notes._  
When the final note floated into space John let out a breath he probably hadn’t even realized he was holding.  
“Did you like it?” Sherlock’s deep voice contrasted with the atmosphere created by his music.  
“Yes...” John whispered, as if the aura of sound that had just evaporated into the room should not be penetrated with human voice. “What’s it called?” he asked, regaining a bit of himself as he drew closer to Sherlock, finally allowing himself through the door. 

_There was a pause, Sherlock remembered considering what to answer, or if he should answer at all._

_“Tea.” he finally stated, though John understood it to be a request and went into the kitchen. “Sounds good.” he responded, missing the point entirely_

 

“What was that?” Mary asked, a smile gracing her pretty face.

“A memory.” Sherlock said as his fingers ghosted over the strings as if playing.

“No...Really?” She sighed sarcastically “What were you trying to convey?”  
He stopped his practicing to looked up at her, face blank, as if he’d been caught off guard.

“Emotions.” He said simply  
“Brilliant deduction,” she looked so unlike herself as rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Lets dig deeper, shall we?” she reached out to take the violin from him. “What does the piece mean to you?” She stood up and took it from him “You meant something with it, you wanted him to hear it, or else you would have stopped the moment you heard him listening.”

“You’ve composed for other people, but it’s special for him, why?” Mary asked, picking up the bow from the open case by Sherlock’s foot. “Is he special perhaps?” she asked tucking the violin under her chin and playing out a melody he had been working on for months at this point without being able to give it a resolution. Her movements were exactly like his when he played, swaying in time with the melody as she and the violin danced to their own music, a bad habit his instructor as a child had never been able to rid him of.

“You’re not a violinist.” Sherlock commented, as he watched her, interrupting a fermata.

“Mary wasn’t, but I’m not the real Mary.” she smirked at him as she down bowed into the next note where the melody picked up into a flurry of confusion and runs. “Is this how we really make you feel? The puzzle that I am, and John?” she was almost laughing at him as her fingers flew over the strings with the grace of a professional. 

**Author's Note:**

> To Be Continued...  
> Chapter two is nearly completed and more will come after that. Thank you for reading.


End file.
